Window Seat
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: Post OOTP.  Harry takes a moment to reflect on the events of summer during the train ride to Hogwarts.  A sequel, of sorts, to Rescue Me.  One-shot.  Enjoy! :D


Disclaimer: None of the characters mentioned belong to me. They are the creations of the talented J.K. Rowling, and I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

Rating: PG.

Summary: Post OOTP. Harry takes a moment to reflect on the events of summer during the train ride to Hogwarts. A sequel, of sorts, to "Rescue Me." One-shot.

Author's Note: If you haven't read "Rescue Me," I highly recommend you do that now. It's not too long, and "Window Seat" isn't going anywhere. You've got some time, right? :D

If you _have_ read "Rescue Me," thank you in advance for reading this (and reviewing, if you're so inclined). As this is a one-shot all I can do is thank you here, since no longer allows separate chapters for Shout Outs. I hope you like it.

Incidentally, if you don't like it, you are not allowed to blame Tiamante Salazar Tameran and WolfMoon, who asked about the possibility of a sequel. I was flattered by their comments and felt I had enough material to write this. Let me know if it works for you, everybody!

Enjoy. :-)

**WINDOW SEAT**

It was high noon aboard the Hogwarts Express, and Harry Potter had just found himself alone in compartment 17, assigned to watching the coats and bags of his friends while they were out. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger had gone up front with the other prefects to receive their duty timetables and instructions for the school year. Neville Longbottom and Ron's sister Ginny were off with Luna Lovegood, looking for Neville's toad Trevor, who had escaped yet again.

Harry had offered to go with, but the trolley would be coming by soon and Ginny told him to stay put so he could give the lunch witch everyone's order. She'd scribbled down what she and the others wanted on a spare bit of parchment, blithely informed Harry he would be paying for it all, and then added, off his amused smile and raised eyebrows, that everyone else would pay him when they got back.

Far from feeling lonely or annoyed at Ginny bossing him around, Harry was relieved. He was at least doing something useful, and the last thing he wanted just now was conversation. Besides, with the compartment empty, there was room to stretch out and relax. He leaned back against the plush red velvet of the seat, toed off his trainers and put his feet up on the opposite bench. His legs went the distance easily, and it occurred to him that he'd grown a bit over the summer. Slowly, lazily, he tipped his head to the side and looked out the window. The Scottish countryside was rushing past under the glow of a dazzlingly blue sky. He watched the parade of green meadows and red barns and colorful villages without really seeing it.

For just about every year of his secondary school career, Harry had been very excited about returning to Hogwarts. But this time around, he wasn't feeling simply giddy at escaping the Dursleys or eager to see what the year would bring. This return would be rough, he knew, and he was full of a feeling that had no name – a bewildering mixture of anxiety, anger, resolve, and happiness.

After the loss of his godfather, the discussion with Dumbledore that turned his life upside-down, and the turbulent summer he'd had, well ... he decided the word "rocky" would hardly do justice to the coming year. Voldemort was now a bigger threat than ever. Sixth year was the beginning of a grueling two-year slog that would culminate in his seventh year NEWTs. And judging by his OWL results, it looked like he'd be in challenging classes and up to his neck in work.

His exam results had to be re-mailed to him as he was unable to receive them the first time (Uncle Vernon had probably wrested the letter away from Hedwig and ripped it up). But in spite of last year's Ministry interference and all the headaches that came with it, he'd surprised himself and gotten 10 OWLs. This was obviously not as great as Hermione's 13, but it was better than Ron's 6 and one of them, to his shock, was an Outstanding in Potions. He was thrilled to have overcome that particular hurdle to becoming an Auror, even though it would mean more sessions with his least favorite professor, Severus Snape.

But even Potions work didn't worry him half as much as the prospect of continuing Occlumency lessons with his overgrown bat of a Potions master. Dealing with Snape personally wouldn't be a problem (Harry was quite used to defending himself against people who hated him). However, dealing with Snape's unusually cruel brand of Legilimency was another matter entirely.

Harry felt his stomach knot slightly as he realized he had not practiced all summer. But the more he thought about his slacking off, the more he realized it was not for lack of trying. Every time he attempted to clear his mind before bed, a small voice inside him said "Why bother?" And frankly, most nights Harry had been too tired to do anything but agree with the voice, roll over and go to sleep.

That in itself was odd. Harry reckoned he'd gotten more sleep this summer than in the last two school years combined. With any luck, he would be able to explain to Snape (before the great greasy git got his ante up or his fingers around Harry's throat,) that it was because something truly amazing had happened over the summer.

And the summer had been quite dramatic. After three hellish weeks with the Dursleys Harry ended up in hospital, broken and battered, only to be rescued by members of the Order of the Phoenix and whisked off to the Weasleys'. Madame Pomfrey quickly saw to his injuries and then Mrs. Weasley took over, helping him recover and settle in at the Burrow, and he spent the rest of the holidays there, happy and busy.

Yet in all that time – and this was the truly amazing part – Voldemort had not infiltrated his mind once. The visions and feelings of possession had stopped. And the constant, unbearable nightmares, which ranged from dreadful dramas (Sirius rending his long hair and shouting he blamed Harry for his death) to utter madness (Cedric urging Harry to hang himself and then, when Harry had done it, politely inviting him to be a fellow ghost), had dwindled away. It wasn't an immediate diminution, Harry had woken up screaming a few times, and since he had a bed in Ron's room, his mate had been forced to shake him a little to calm him down and shut him up. But this proved to be a rare occurrence that eventually stopped, and considering his track record in the dormitory at school, Harry felt this was a huge improvement.

Of course, all he would tell Snape was that Voldemort had not managed to get into his head. If all went well and Snape believed him, then perhaps he would assume Harry been practicing Occlumency and not care about the rest of it. Maybe his professor would be so pleased that he'd pronounce him some sort of Occlumenic genius and use that as an excuse to not give him any more lessons. And considering how badly they'd gone during his fifth year, Harry was half praying for such a result. Besides, if Snape stopped listening at "Voldemort stayed out," then he wouldn't have to share his suspicion of why Voldemort had not come in.

Harry hadn't thought about it much at the Burrow, since the holidays had been jammed full of things to do. In-between finishing holiday homework, showing Hermione how to ride a broomstick, messing around in the yard, seeing a very exciting Quidditch match, and having his first ever birthday party, he was just grateful to have reached sixteen alive and healthy, and was not really interested in how it was possible.

But a few days ago he'd gotten to thinking about it, and something Dumbledore had said at the end of last year came back to him. The headmaster had told Harry that it was very difficult for Voldemort to possess him, because Harry had something in "such quantities that Voldemort had not at all," and how his heart had saved him, or something along those lines. The words had begun to blur together in all the flurry and fuss of summer.

But Harry kept turning the scattered phrases over in his head and yesterday, just like that, like some key had rolled all the tumblers into place and opened a door in his mind, everything started to make sense. And all of a sudden he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what had really protected him from Voldemort all summer.

Love.

It was not his mother's love, her protective blood tie was now so weak that his aunt's blood had to be helped along by spells and kept in a bottle. It was not the Dursleys' love, a phrase which Harry assumed was an oxymoron. It was not, and he felt a sharp pang at this, Sirius's love, because no matter how much he still loved Sirius, his godfather was gone.

It was the love of another. Through all the drama and madness, all the loss and pain, one person had stepped up and shown Harry she cared for him, and helped him more than she could ever know. Madame Pomfrey had certainly healed his broken body. But in the end, it was Molly Weasley who rescued him.

There was no definite moment that Harry could point to when he realized he was loved in her house. It might have been as early as the first time he woke up, safe in bed in the guest room, with the cozy comforter brushing against his chin and her warm hands on his face. Perhaps it was the birthday party, when he was added to the clock and he felt his heart swell to twice its normal size.

But Harry decided it was really the little things that did it, the constant off-hand showings of affection and attention that most people took for granted. Mrs. Weasley fussed over the shabby state of his clothes and was forever attempting to make his hair lie flat, much to his and everyone else's amusement. She offered to go with him to London when he spent his gift certificate at Three Letter Blank Space, to make sure he bought things he really needed. (He accepted, and walked away very pleased with a bag of stylish pants and shirts that actually fit.) She knew that he preferred his sandwiches with no crusts and that, at the moment, he abhorred olives. He'd once caught her feeding Hedwig, even though that was his responsibility. He knew, without thinking about it, that he was included whenever she hollered for "everybody."

She'd even listened patiently when he told her in a halting, quiet voice what he'd done to Sirius, how his own stupidity had gotten his godfather killed. Instead of scoffing and insisting it wasn't his fault, she just handed him a tissue and told him that although she disagreed with his assessment, what he felt was perfectly normal, that life, for better or worse, had to go on, and that it would get easier to deal with. He was so stunned at her understanding that he came dangerously close to telling her about the prophecy. Fortunately he stopped himself in the nick of time, realizing that combining his possible death sentence with her worrying tendencies was something akin to pouring gasoline on a fire.

Aside from that discussion, life was good and exciting at the Burrow. Harry never voiced this aloud, but he realized that Mrs. Weasley, instead of treating him like a guest, had instinctively begun to treat him like one of her own children, right down to the occasional telling-off. And since Mrs. Weasley was in charge of five children for the summer, she didn't lack for things to yell about. She yelled at Ginny for hogging the bathroom. She yelled at the twins a couple of times for fighting, because there was no hitting allowed at the Burrow. And she hauled off and yelled at Harry for helping Ron cover her kitchen in flour in a miserable attempt to bake a batch of biscuits.

Ron looked moody and Harry winced as Mrs. Weasley carried on, knowing that he and Ron fully deserved her wrath. But then she did the most astonishing thing: she calmed down and ordered them to clean up the mess, which they did. And then, miracle of miracles, she rolled up her sleeves, commanded the boys to do the same, and showed them how to measure ingredients and bake properly so they wouldn't coat the kitchen in something else. Coming from a house where mistakes had led to slaps in the face and shouts instead of lessons in biscuit-baking, Harry spent the afternoon elbow-deep in batter with a faraway look in his eyes. Mrs. Weasley didn't see, but Ron had to prod Harry twice to snap him out of it.

Of all the things Mrs. Weasley did, though, one would stick in Harry's mind for the rest of his life. Mr. Weasley was always exhausted from working so late, so it was Mrs. Weasley who made the rounds at bedtime, going from bedroom to bedroom, saying goodnight to everyone and giving them a kiss in turn. Harry lost count of how many times he felt his mattress sink under her weight, how many times she gave him a hug, how many times he felt her lips brush his scar and he heard her whisper, "Goodnight, dear."

Ron frequently pretended to be asleep when his mum came round to him, but Mrs. Weasley always found Harry wide awake. Harry never told Ron this. And it was a blow to his pride to even think about it, but for the first week he waited for her every night, clutching the bedclothes hard, worrying that she might forget and not come. He didn't just need her loving assurance before he went to sleep – he ached for it.

It eventually dawned on him that this was what it must be like to have a mother.

The holidays went by, and Mrs. Weasley didn't miss a night. She kept coming, steady as the stars, just as steadily as she kept her family together and made him a part of it. And ultimately, Harry realized that he felt more than just alive or reasonably OK at the Burrow. The nightmares had vanished and within a few weeks he was sleeping steadily. He was eating better than he ever had at the Dursleys', and by the end of summer he was looking healthy, with good color in his cheeks and a few added pounds of muscle to cover his growth spurt. He felt good, and valued, and safe, and strong. He felt like he could face anything.

Naturally, someone like Snape would be incredulous at the idea that Mrs. Weasley's fussing was all that stood between Harry and possession by Lord Voldemort. But Harry couldn't help but think otherwise. He wondered how he could ever repay the kindness shown to him.

"Lunch, dear?"

Harry snapped his head around to face the doorway. The smiling, plump witch had parked her trolley outside compartment 17, and was looking at him expectantly. He jerked himself out of his thoughts.

"Er, yes, please," he said automatically. "I, erm ... hang on, everyone in the compartment wants something. I've got the list here somewhere ..."

He got up and started looking, scattering books and coats in his hunt for the scrap Ginny had written on and, finding it, he adjusted his glasses and read everyone's order to the witch. She in turn demanded two Galleons for the lot, which Harry gave her. Passing in six packages, she nodded politely and left.

Harry was staring at the lunches, wondering whose was whose, when Luna, Ginny, and Neville (now holding a newly captured Trevor) came barreling back into the compartment, laughing and talking. They were quickly followed by Ron and Hermione, who looked excited and baffled, respectively. Ron was still prone to rhapsodizing about the Cannons – Bats game he and Harry had attended, and it seemed poor Hermione was receiving the brunt of his exuberance this time.

Harry put his shoes back on before someone tripped over them, everyone paid him back except Ron, and they all descended on the lunch packs like locusts. Once everyone had their correct package, Ron and Hermione started talking about their duties (Ron was complaining loudly about dealing with the "midgets" again). Ginny and Luna were deep in discussion about the upcoming issue of the Quibbler. Neville was pleading with Trevor to eat a bit of his pumpkin pasty. Trevor was croaking back at Neville, apparently in the negative. Hedwig and Pig were ignoring everybody, asleep in their cages in the luggage rack. Crookshanks had come in from wandering the halls and was curled up on Ginny's lap, purring.

Harry was happy to listen to the animals and the conversation and not add to it. And as he un-wrapped his sandwich, he glanced around the compartment and realized, quite suddenly, that he was surrounded by friends so loyal they'd almost followed him to their deaths. The Order was on his side. Mrs. Weasley was fiercely determined to look out for him. This year wouldn't be easy, but if all that wasn't enough to carry him through, he didn't know what would do it.

Finally his stomach grumbled, pulling him back to reality. He surveyed his turkey sandwich, noticed it had a considerably large crust, and ripped it off methodically. After checking for olives and finding none, he took a bite and stared out the window, feeling his heart speed up a little and his spirits lift as the countryside went whizzing by.

THE END

Thanks for reading! You rock! :D


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